


The Artistic Vision of Gregory House

by leiascully



Category: House M.D.
Genre: College, F/M, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-26
Updated: 2007-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've got to have a model, at least semi-nude."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artistic Vision of Gregory House

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: pre-series (college)  
> A/N: For [**perspi**](http://perspi.livejournal.com/), who wanted fingerpainting. I'm sure he got his fingers plenty involved.  
> Disclaimer: _House M.D._ and all related characters are the property of Shore Z, Bad Hat Harry, and Fox. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

"I don't understand why you took a photography class in the first place," he growled.

"Some of us like to broaden our horizons," she said tartly. "Please, House. I know you can't understand enjoying art, but can you understand not wanting to fail a class?"

"Nope," he said with evident satisfaction. "Never been in that situation."

"I just need a model," she pleaded. "House. Five minutes. I'll buy you dinner."

"It's my day off from caring. Go find some other rube. Flash him the girls. Flash her the girls, even better. I'm not doing it."

She sighed and began to pack the camera away. He curled his fingers around her wrist and pulled her close, kissing her. She held herself stiff against him at first, but he was insistent, and she melted against him. He took the camera from her without looking, holding it at arm's length to take a skew photo of their embrace. His other hand slid down her back and over her ass to cup her to him. She nipped at him and drew away, reaching for the camera. He held it above her head.

"House, quit it. I've got to get going."

"You know, there is a better way to solve this," he said, with that twinkle in his eye that said he was up to something.

"Listening," she said cautiously, crossing her arms. He looked from the camera to her and back to the camera. Then he grinned.

"No," she said. "I've got to have a model, at least semi-nude."

"Your body's as good as any. Better than some."

"And what am I supposed to say if he asks who it is?"

"Tell him you didn't trust anyone else with your vision?" House suggested. "Tell him you got a tripod?" He waggled his hips and raised his eyebrows. "It's not far from the truth."

"No!" she said, but he kissed her again, the camera abandoned on the table and his hands up under her shirt, until "no" turned into "yes" and she was lying on her stomach on the bed, nearly naked with House crouched over her, a pot of raspberry syrup and a basting brush in his hand. A plastic bottle of chocolate syrup was chilly and sweating against her hip.

"That tickles," she said, shivering as the bristles skimmed across her back. "What the hell are you doing anyway?"

"Writing 'property of Greg House'," he said. "Stop talking. You'll mess it up."

"God," she complained, "why did I agree to this?"

"Because you have a secret crush on your photo teacher and you want him to sleep with you?"

She reached back and slapped his muscular thigh. "Insufferable."

"Mmmm," he said. "Hold still." He put the pot of raspberry syrup in her hand and held it there until she tightened her fingers around it. She lifted her head and dabbled the basting brush on her tongue as he sat back. She imagined he was surveying his handiwork, but all she could feel was his shifting weight over her hips. He plucked the bottle of chocolate from its place beside her hip and she shivered again as she felt the stuff drooling across her shoulder blades.

"Why do you have a basting brush, anyway?"

"Maybe I cook," he said. "Seriously, hold still."

She twitched her nose in rebellion. He was still applying the chocolate syrup in cool strings across her back. She could feel the pressure of his thighs along her hips. When he leaned over far enough, she could feel his erection against her ass. She was tempted to just roll over and wrap her legs around him, and to hell with whatever he had planned, but she didn't have time to find another model or go to the laundromat. As it was, she was going to be spending the evening in the darkroom with her own syrup-coated skin. She hoped he was a half-decent photographer.

He brushed his fingertips over the bare nape of her neck, gentle as a kiss. He had tied her hair up, claiming all sorts of artistic license, but she was glad enough to keep her curls out of the sugar. "Okay," he said. "Don't move."

"For the record," she grumbled, "the only person I want to sleep with at the moment is you. Unless you get me a bad grade in this class, in which case all relations will be abruptly terminated." She pillowed her head on her arms and turned her face to look at him. He had set up the tripod and seemed to know his way around the camera, at least. He peered through the viewfinder and she batted her eyes at him.

"Put your knee up a little."

"I'm not moving," she said facetiously, and he rolled his eyes and came back to her, holding her calf and pushing her knee up until she had to twist her head. Her back was angled toward the camera. She stared at the wall. He bent over and kissed her cheek.

"Trust me," he said. She heard him move off across the room, and then the click of the camera shutter. He seemed to be shifting the tripod: the clicks came from different places each time. She looked over her shoulder at him. He was smiling at her.

"Good," he said. "Now look at me the other way, peek through your arms." She did and he hummed in satisfaction. "That's my girl."

He went through the whole roll of thirty-six exposures, having her look away or toward him, adjusting her arms and legs. He murmured as he took the photos. She tingled on the bed, feeling his eyes on her. Anticipation pooled in her belly and between her legs. Her nipples tightened against the sheets and she arched her back slightly. She had lost count of the clicks when he stopped and came over to her. The bed dipped under his weight as he knelt over her and leaned down, his tongue flickering between her shoulder blades.

"Oooh," she said.

"Got to clean you up somehow," he mumbled, dragging his mouth from the small of her back to the nape of her neck. "Don't roll over." He lapped at her ribs and she moaned a bit into the pillows. There was one last click and flash from the camera. He stroked her hip with his fingers and then slipped them into her panties. The other hand went under her bare breasts as teeth and lips and tongue moved agonizingly slowly over her back.

"Housssse," she hissed. "Don't be a tease."

"Shall we take this party to the shower?" he asked, helping her up. He backed her across the room with kisses, one arm around her waist, his thigh between hers. They fumbled open the bathroom door together and he twisted on the water while she slid her raspberry-edged panties down her legs. He shucked off jeans and t-shirt and had her up against the back wall of the shower almost before she could breathe. The tile was cold and her back was sticky, but House and the water were hot and slick, and soon enough she was too. She hiked her knee over his hip and he held her there as he slid into her. She gasped and held tight. He managed to soap her back and put a hickey on her neck at the same time. Her moans echoed against the tile.

They stayed in the shower until the water went cold. Afterwards, she left him sleeping on the bed, trying to hide her hickeys under the neck of her thin t-shirt. She'd develop the photos, hand in the best ones to her prof, and bring the rest back to House. And then - well. House was a heavy enough sleeper that she could at least make a start at repaying the favor. Still plenty of syrup left, and she was a good hand with a brush. They might end up at the laundromat after all.


End file.
